Excerpt
Jrgens musing on the growing turmoil ended as the vehicle approached a German checkpoint. The guard began explaining that with night approaching, it would be advisable to avoid areas of partisan activity and wait until morning to proceed. He observed Jrgen open his fine greatcoat with its fur collar and lining, revealing the many medals. Jrgen canted his Thomas L. German was born and raised along the Missouri River in Yankton, South Dakota. His father was a cowboy balladeer, writer, and interviewer for Radio Station WNAX, and, as a boy, Tom would travel around the five state area with him during the summer. After studies in Germany as a Fulbright Scholar, he pursued a career in medicine culminating in an orthopedic residency at Duke University. He and his wife, Georgene, after an Army stint in Nuremberg, Germany, settled into practice and raised a family in Savannah, Georgia. The Caucasian Dove evolved from his inherited passion for writing.
hat slightly and stared directly at the guard. He casually removed a cigarette from his silver case with a family crest, and lit it.
We have not fought this well and this long to be cowed by a rumor about a few partisans. We must be in the village below by morning. We will proceed.
The guard uttered a curt Jawohl, clicking his heels and motioning them forward. He was not about to counter a decorated field officer.
A harvest moon illuminated the road and surroundings, aiding their progress as they drove on, twisting ever downward from the upper reaches toward Tukla, situated in the lower hills, which would abruptly fall off to the endless steppe below. Jrgen thought of the people of the Caucasus, how they were halting the German army from crossing the mountains to the southern oil fields. They had fought more fiercely than the Russians. Each stone had centuries of meaning for them.
A Russian Orthodox Church, small but dramatic because of its promontory placement, emerged before them. They slowed a bit, a cliff to their right opening to the steppe below. Suddenly a bullet shattered the windshield, striking the driver with a thud and sending the car into the churchs stone fence. The sergeant, injured, grasped his weapon, searching the moonlit roadside.
Two figures moved amid the rocks and the German veteran dropped one and then the other with swift shots. Out of the shadows rang two replies and the sergeant crumbled against the cars wreckage.
Jrgen had only his pistol, useless at this range other than to reveal his presence and location. He rolled over the stone fence and lay there, quietly removing his furred greatcoat, then his jackboots, that he might move silently among the rocks and bushes. He was no stranger to combat. The medals were not mere decoration .He slowly made his way to the edge of the church, staying in the shadows. From there he could view a single person, darting across the road to the stone fence. Close enough now for a pistol, thought Jrgen. To his left there was the clatter of a grenade on the walkway. He twisted, lunging around the corner of the church. The blast shattered a window, and ripped away some of the carved wood from the small entryway, but its force and shrapnel missed their mark, causing him only a momentary ringing in his ears, that quickly dissipated. Jrgen crept stealthily toward the rock fence and waited in the shadow of a gravestone. He listened to several faint scraping sounds, finally glimpsing the partisan inching toward the church. He had already cocked his pistol in readiness for this moment. A gentle pull of his index finger and the weapon spurted its lethal metal into the creeping man. The figure jerked and groaned once, then was silent. Jrgen waited in silence, patiently observing the motionless body. Then he carefully scanned the surroundings for any activity .He crept back to where his greatcoat and boots were, and quietly put them back on. Again he waited a long time with no perceptible sound or motion. There was only the moonlight, and an occasional wisp of early fall chilled breeze.
There was some light from within the small church, and he made his way to the damaged entrance. On the cold ground, fluttering slightly was a bird. Knocked from its nest in the eave, it lay stunned and vulnerable. It was a white dove. Without knowing why, he gently picked up the dove and placed it inside his greatcoat next to his chest.
The interior of the church was dimly lit with a few candles, allowing Jrgen to discern the stylized icons in the altar area, and a large Russian Orthodox cross. The bird stirred momentarily. Jrgen studied the aged icons and the metal cross as he gently stroked the dove. The candlelight behind the cross seemed to brighten until its brilliance hurt his eyes. The cross grew larger and seemed to envelope him. He fell to his knees, his muscles wrenching and his face twisting in pain. Sharply pitched sounds pierced his ears, and vivid images of hellish suffering writhed before him. His arms flung out and a low groan came from deep within him, rising to an excruciating howl. His body swayed in agony, teetering at the edge of a horrible abyss.
Suddenly a quiet surrounded him, and he found himself in a garden alongside a church in his hometown. A soft, warm rain was falling on him, relaxing him completely. He viewed a pink stairway, with light pink angels gracefully ascending and descending. An angelic choir sang a familiar melody filling the church with heavenly sound. A peace beyond all pleasure spread though him, as he crumpled to the rock floor before the altar. All was motionless save the flickering light of the candles and the slight fluttering of the dove.
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